


Cold Nights, Warm Hearts

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull Holiday Exchange, M/M, Post-Trespasser, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 18:44:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5676595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the weather can be bloody unpredictable.</p><p>All things considered, sometimes The Iron Bull is actually kinda okay with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Nights, Warm Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doozerdoodles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doozerdoodles/gifts).



> Thank you to Lavinia for the beta! <3

Ferelden, late autumn, winter nipping at its heels.

There are times, in these years, when Dorian can spare time to come south, not merely over the border into Nevarra, but South, times when excuses of diplomacy give them weeks together at a time, Bull playing bodyguard and joking about what Varric's books would have to say about well-muscled bodyguards.

He enjoys these trips. He could have done without the snowstorm that appeared to have blown up overnight and sealed them in the little mountain hut they'd stopped at to rest themselves and their horses, but only because if he's going to be shut in somewhere with Dorian, he'd prefer that his Kadan was happy about it.

“I should have listened to my mother.” Dorian mutters, staring out the window-- or at least, attempting to. There wasn't much to stare at.

Bull has never met Lady Pavus, and doesn't particularly expect to any time soon, but from what Dorian has told him of her, directly and indirectly, that statement doesn't really fit the context. “Had a lot to say about coping with blizzards, did she?”

“Not as such, but she did always insist that one should never step foot inside any accommodation described to one as _quaint_.” Dorian says, giving the carved mabari bootscraper by the door a look of utter contempt. “At least there are no holes in the roof, I will give it that.”

“We've got firewood, food, and a fairly nice bed.” Bull points out. “You know what one of Varric's novels would have to say about the situation, right?”

Magister Pavus, highly respected luminary of the Tevinter Magisterium, turns on him and expresses his opinion on _that_ in language that would make a Rivaini sailor blush, ending with “...and _stop helping the dwarf_!”

“So, we're not going to conserve body heat?” Bull asks, and laughs when Dorian's response is a rude gesture, wreathed in flame, before he stalks off to investigate their food-- and wine-- supplies for himself.

* * *

Dorian's concerns about missing the various important meetings his presence is probably required at aside, it doesn't look as if they're really in danger of much more than a slight delay. Once he's settled down, he uses the sending crystal to contact the Inquisitor, and Red's networks are more than able in the matter of getting word to whoever needs word got to.

Secretly, Bull's a little glad. It's not as bad as it once was, but he thinks Dorian still fears that if he takes his eyes off his homeland for a moment, it will slip back into the madness of the old days, the Tevinter of the Venatori and of Corypheus. That he, alone, is the sea wall holding back the flood, and shit, that sounds pretty damn poetic in Trade, but it's none less true for it.

So he thinks it does his Kadan good, this, to accept that there's little he can do about the situation except complain about the paltry amount and undistinguished quality of the wine he fishes out of their luggage, and then relenting when Bull offers to mull it for him.

“One of the few good things to come out of the South.” he says, smiling. It makes his scar curve in a way that reminds Bull of a Tallis he knew, in another life. He still wishes he'd been there to see it, Dorian striding into the Magisterium the day after with the wound still bright and fresh, breathing more fire and ice than all the dragons the Inquisitor had hunted down put together. But reminding Dorian of it makes him frown, still, makes him too self-conscious.

So, he holds his words. Says it without words, instead, when despite his earlier protestations against 'sharing body heat', Dorian curls his hands around his mug of mulled wine and his body against Bull's own. Tries to say: wouldn't have ever thought I'd be here. Not sure what 'here' means. For one: stuck in a mountain hut with a gorgeous, grumpy mage who against all odds appears to still be in love with me, certainly, beyond anything he'd ever been able to consider a possibility.

But also: wouldn't have thought I'd be in love. Wouldn't have thought I'd be Tal Vashoth, clear and free of mind and _happy_ for it. Would probably have given even odds I'd even live this long. Some days, would have given even odds I'd live to see the sunrise.

“Amatus...” he hears, and looks down to see Dorian's fingers against a scar of Bull's own. No points for guessing which one he's fussing over.

_You risked yourself, and the Chargers--_

“Yeah.” he says. “Me too.”

* * *

It's actually, all things considered, a relaxing sort of break, rather than any sort of real hazard. At this time of year, these storms come and go, this one will go, soon enough. They're late in the season to be making this crossing, but not so deep into winter to make it dangerous. Their mounts, solid Ferelden beasts certainly more used to these winters than Dorian, have held up well in the little stable adjoining the hut, blinking mildly when Bull tunnels through to check on them as if wondering what all the fuss is about.

Dorian keeps the fire going, melts snow to keep them in water, and pretends he doesn't like the pickles as if Bull hasn't seen him eating the ones Cullen's sister used to send to Skyhold directly out of the jar on many occasions.

“This is entirely unbefitting of a Pavus.” he declares, piling more pickles on top of his cold meat and cheese, and smiles, as the weight falls off his shoulders. “Thank you, amatus.”

“You're welcome.”

* * *

Conserving body heat; a good enough excuse, it appears, for Dorian to stick close to him under the covers and not complain about being _sticky_. “A decent bath.” he murmurs, a renewal of an old game. “You neglect yourself too much when I'm away, you ought to soak your joints more often.”

“I like how you pretend this would be for my benefit.” Bull replies. “The one at the villa count as 'decent'?”

“The one at the villa counts as 'marginally acceptable'.” Dorian says. He probably would turn up his nose if his face wasn't practically buried in Bull's chest. “We deserve better. Also, of course you bathing is for my benefit.”

He can imagine it. Dream of that slowly-drawing-closer future. “I'll learn to make those pickles you like. Have a smokehouse. Lay in lots of good stuff so when we're snowed in for the winter it won't be a problem.”

“We are _not_ moving anywhere you have to plan for being _snowed in for the winter_.” Dorian responds, lifting his head enough to give Bull a look of horror. Then, slightly quieter, “And I don't like those pickles, they're just required to give southern food _taste_.”

He laughs. “Please, the only way you'd like them more was if I smeared pickle on--”

“Finish that sentence and I will set this bed _on fire_.”

* * *

IN THE FACE OF THE STORM'S WRATH, goes the tag-line of the latest Tethras novel in his ever-popular series about the forbidden love between a Tevinter mage and a Qunari mercenary, LOVE IS THEIR GREATEST WEAPON.

“It makes it sound as if we're _fighting the weather_.” Dorian says, with distaste. “Any resemblance to real persons and events is purely coincidental, _my arse_.”

“Your arse does feature quite a lot in this one.” Varric is pretty good about making sure Bull gets a copy to 'review', before it goes to publication. “It's a great arse, though. It deserves a starring role.” He considers giving said piece of anatomy a squeeze to demonstrate his approval, but something about the quirk of Dorian's lips right now says the response to that might be... _shocking_. Heh.

“The next time we have to be trapped in some Maker-forsaken mountain hut with no amenities to speak of, I expect it to be summer.” Dorian declares, and throws the book down with a bang, as punctuation.

“Noted.”

Rocky could probably manage some sort of controlled landslide, after all.


End file.
